


Surprise, Bitches!

by OfHealingLove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF!Hermione, Bad Parenting, Dark, Dark Hermione, Death Eaters, Don't Take This Too Seriously, Drabble Series, Draco is a little shit but we love him anyway, F/M, Father-Daughter Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Halfblood!Hermione, Hermione Snape, Hermione hates Voldemort all on her own, Hermione's real parents were killed by Death Eaters, I'm writing as I feel like it, Muggle-born-but-not-Hermione, Severus is a terrible father and should not be one, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Tomione may or may not happen, adopted!Hermione, dad!snape, daughter!Hermione, liberal use of wandless magic, minor attempts at dry humor that will probably fail spectacularly, this is an experiment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8379790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfHealingLove/pseuds/OfHealingLove
Summary: Hermione’s parents were killed by Death Eaters just before the fall of Voldemort and she was adopted by Severus Snape as part of his reparations to the post-war Wizarding World. Hermione grows up with a distant father, a library full of Dark magic, and the knowledge that Voldemort has taken away her one chance for a happy, loving family. With a father who is the Head of Slytherin House, a Muggle-born being sorted into it isn’t all that surprising - even if nobody knows she is one.However, her plans to steal the next generation of Voldemort's supporters, usurp him, and take his throne as the Darkest Lady of the century, might be a little surprising. But only a little.The fact that Dumbledore doesn't bother to stop her is possibly the most surprising of all.





	1. Father-Daughtering Bonding I: Age Six - Lessons in Warding

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a little drabble series that just kind of popped up out of nowhere and assaulted me. Unfortunately, I am weak and succumbed to it. I have only the vaguest idea of where this is going, honestly, and I'm writing it as I feel like it. I'm a couple chapters ahead. Just a warning: please, please, PLEASE do not take this too seriously, because I'm certainly not. It's kind of an experiment at a different genre of writing. For those of you who know me - there will be NO non-con or any of my usual genre in here (to my current knowledge). Except for the dark part. This will probably be dark.

Hermione Granger – no, no, she was Hermione _Snape,_ she reminded herself, but in her head she liked to call herself by her real parents’ surname – was six years old, and already she was giving her father – no, no, he was _Severus,_ he didn’t deserve to be called Father, or Dad, and especially not Daddy – hell. Already she had woken him up at the crack of dawn, which he hated, purposely sabotaged breakfast by adding pickled beetle eyes to his scrambled eggs “on accident”, and brought in a mess of mud from the small, unkempt backyard of Spinner’s End.

It wasn’t even noon yet.

Hermione was not like other children. She was too smart for her own good, and too mature to boot. Some might have said that she was just a brat, and she didn’t deny it, but really, she only acted that way with Severus, and it was only because she hated him.

Loathed him, really.

She had a nearly eidetic memory, and it had worked against her all her six short years of life, but she wasn’t mature enough to have realized _that_ yet. She had memories starting from when she was one, when her parents were still alive. She remembered her first birthday party, and she remembered a kind mother and a loving, doting father. She also remembered two men and a woman – only known from the sound of their voices as they screamed terrible spells at her parents while they tortured them, as they wore black cloaks and masks – killing her parents. She remembered hiding under the bed, watching, and she remembered the _crack!_ of what she now knew to be Disapparation. After that, though, she didn’t remember much, until she came face-to-face with the man who was now supposed to be her father.

She had tried to love him, she really had, but he had never tried to love her. Hermione soon understood that she was just a burden to him, as she had overheard him talking with the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore; she had heard him complain, albeit in an undertone, about just how much she burdened him. But Dumbledore had insisted she stay, and so stay she had.

Hermione had been making Severus’s life miserable ever since. That was two years ago now.

If Severus had ever tried to be nice to her, though, Hermione was pretty sure she would have found compassion within her and forgiven him. After all, she _wanted_ to like him, and that made her hate him all the more, because he didn’t deserve even that from her.

When he saw the mud she had tracked into the hall, he gave a great, heaving sigh and used _Scourgify_ to clean it. It wasn’t about the difficulty of cleaning it up to Hermione – it was all about causing him the inconvenience of having to deal with it in the first place.

“Hermione,” he growled, and, as she was sitting against her bedroom door, listening for his anger, Hermione heard him easily. She stood carefully, making sure not to get more mud in her bedroom, and opened the door.

“Yes, Severus?”

She saw something flash in his eyes at the use of his first name. That always happened, but she didn’t know what it meant, other than that he was angry, but he’d been angry before and nothing had ever flashed in his eyes then. Hermione staunchly ignored whatever was going on in his head, because she didn’t really care to know.

He stared at her. “Is there any particular reason for this?” he asked coldly. She hadn’t pissed him off enough yet, then, if he could still maintain an even tone of voice.

“No, Severus.” She said his name merely to see that flash again, but it didn’t come this time.

“I see.” He wasn’t rising to the bait; maybe he was too tired to do so, since she had woken him up very early. “Very well, then. You’re banned from the library for two weeks. Go take a bath.”

Hermione gaped at him. He’d _never_ banned her from the library before. He knew how much she liked to read, as he had taught her as soon as she was able in an effort to get her out of his hair. It had worked spectacularly until she realized why he’d done it, and while she still spent the majority of her time reading, she also made a concerted effort to make him miserable.

Given how much he already hated life, she had her work cut out for her, but she had always like a challenge.

“What – but – that’s not fair!” she cried angrily.

“I think it’s very fair,” he said in his cool tones. “Your behavior has been very out of line these past few days. There are consequences for all your actions. You know this.”

Hermione scowled and glared at him coldly, hoping against hope that he would change his mind. Then, when he simply waved her on to the bathroom, she said defiantly, “You can’t really stop me, you know.”

He smirked a little, and Hermione didn’t like that look, but he didn’t explain. “We’ll see.”

Hermione didn’t argue further and took her bath obediently, but only because she didn’t dare go into the library all muddy and risk soiling her precious books. She bathed quickly, though, determined to sneak into the library as soon as possible to prove to herself that he couldn’t really keep her out.

Because she had an inkling that maybe Severus might actually be able to stop her from reading for a _whole two weeks_ , and that was just unacceptable.

That day, Hermione learned a very painful lesson about warding and had little boils on her hands, feet, and head from trying to get into the library and then touch the books in the living room. Severus refused to let her treat them with the Boil Cure for three days, by which time they had almost faded on their own. He said she reaped what she had sown, and Hermione had never hated him more.

It wasn’t very surprising, then, that when she was finally allowed back into the library, the first topic of research she started was on wards.


	2. Father-Daughter Bonding II: Age Seven – Birthday Parties are for Losers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are no birthday parties and Hermione is unhappy about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I was not expecting the reaction this got! Since you people seem to like it so much, here's the next chapter! I'm now like five chapters ahead and still working on more, so they should keep coming pretty quickly.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! <3

It was September 19th, 1986, and Hermione awoke grumpily. She had known since a week ago that it was her birthday, and she also knew that she’d be lucky if Severus got her anything for her it. She didn’t have any friends, so she didn’t know from experience what birthday parties were like apart from her first one, but she’d read about them in one of the few fiction novels that Severus kept in his library and they sounded just lovely.

But the problem was that even if she had friends, which she didn’t, Severus would never let her throw a party, as he could barely stand her, much less any other children her age. Hermione knew she was special, and not just in that she was a witch, so she had never really expected to have friends anyways, but it would have been nice to receive one of those fabled birthday presents.

She trudged downstairs and saw Severus already at the dining table. She must have slept in, then. A glance at the Muggle clock in the kitchen told her that it was 9am, and another glance at the table told her that he had made her food, which was nice, as he didn’t always. There was even a warming charm on it, and without greeting him, she sat down and dug in.

Severus was good at portioning just the right amount of food for her, so that there were never any leftovers but she also never went hungry. She supposed it had to do with being a Potions Master. And today he’d made her favorite, French toast, but he’d also made eggs sunny-side up, which she hated, so it didn’t really count as a birthday gift.

Maybe he meant for it to be, and she kind of hoped he did just because it would be nice if he wouldn’t be horrible to her on her birthday. Then again, she was just as horrible right back to him every other day of the year, so it was a bit foolish to expect that anything would change, regardless of the occasion.

She pushed her plate away and he Banished it to the sink, where it sat waiting to be cleaned. Hermione was already standing up to leave, but he raised a hand and she sat back down, albeit reluctantly.

“On Monday you will start lessons with a tutor,” he told her.

Hermione was shocked for a moment. “A tutor?” she parroted, quite uncharacteristically.

“You will be attending Hogwarts when you are of age and I will not have my daughter be one of the dunces I have to teach.” Hermione’s stomach lurched a little when he claimed her as his daughter aloud, though she wasn’t sure if it was a good lurch or a bad lurch. She hadn’t had many of the former and had many of the latter, so the fact that she didn’t automatically know it was bad probably meant that it was good.

But it wasn’t good, she told herself, because Severus was _not_ her father, and she didn’t like him one bit, so obviously she couldn’t have had a good lurch because he said she was his daughter. It didn’t make any sense, it wasn’t logical.

And Hermione thrived off logic.

“Okay,” she finally responded, and she sounded uncertain even to her own ears. She regrouped quickly. “What will I be learning?”

“The basics,” he replied. “Maths, reading and writing-” Hermione opened her mouth to object, as she had known how to read and write since she was four, but one quelling look made her hesitate long enough for him to continue “-rudimentary Muggle science, and history of both the Muggle and Wizarding world.”

“Why all the Muggle stuff?” she asked, but it wasn’t meant to be snarky. Hermione could see no reason to refuse knowledge, even if it would never apply to her.

“Because it may help you in the future,” Severus said vaguely, and Hermione knew from his tone that she wouldn’t be getting anything else out of him.

Hermione shrugged. If she had a tutor, then she would be able to learn faster. Even though it certainly wasn’t to please him by not being one of the dunderheads, it would be nice to be able to learn in a structured environment. She was determined to excel in her studies, so that when she arrived at Hogwarts, she would have no competition for the highest grades. It was her dream to be the best.

A dark look flitted over her face. _The_ very _best._

If Severus noticed it, she didn’t know, because she composed herself very quickly. She looked at him once more, and asked quietly, not daring to hope, but hoping all the same, “Is that all?”

Severus nodded, and Hermione, hiding her dejection at another birthday passed without a present, left the room and went to curl up in the library. She heard him heading to his potions lab shortly after, and from the many owls that had come in with orders for potions over the last couple of day, she knew he would be very busy for a while.

A bit nostalgically, and perhaps a little masochistically, she searched for the book that had mentioned a birthday party and presents and started it from the beginning. When she got to the part where they sang “Happy Birthday” to the protagonist, Hermione was appalled to find a wet spot on the page she had just turned to. Another joined it. After the third spot had appeared, she touched her face. She pulled away from the book quickly so as to not further ruin it and put it down on the table next to the large armchair she was curled up in.

She was crying. She hadn’t done that in a long time.

It was odd how once she realized she was crying, she started crying harder. She muffled her sobs in her sleeve and wiped her face frantically, trying to make it stop, but she couldn’t. What a terrible birthday. She was crying for the first time in years, the last time being when she nearly broke a finger when several large books fell from the top of the shelf she had bumped into.

At the memory, she sobbed harder, and in the privacy of her mind, she acknowledged that perhaps she had really actually hoped for a birthday present, or even just an acknowledgement that it _was_ her birthday. She didn’t know why it was so important – it wasn’t, really – but she couldn’t help but remember her first birthday party and how happy she had been.

She really wished her parents hadn’t died.

No, she thought darkly. They didn’t die – they were _murdered_.

Severus thought she didn’t know, and no one realized that she remembered. But when she had read _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ just a few months ago, she immediately knew who was behind it.

You-Know-Who. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. The Dark Lord. Voldemort.

She hated him with every inch, every fiber of her being. What she felt for Severus didn’t even compare, couldn’t even hold a candle to it.

He was dead now, though, or so the books she read about it said. Somehow, Hermione doubted it. It seemed that such a powerful wizard shouldn’t have been killed by just a little boy. But everyone believed it and had apparently rejoiced, so Hermione voicing her doubts would not be welcome. She kept her thoughts to herself, but she was self-aware enough to wonder if the reason she thought he wasn’t dead was so that she could one day kill him herself.

A seed was planted that day. When she finished crying, she felt worn out and exhausted, and carefully put the book she’d been reading back on its shelf. She then went to her room and closed the door, not quite sure what to do with herself. For once in her life, she didn’t really feel like reading, and felt betrayed by that fact.

She went and lied in her bed, staring out the window but seeing nothing. Eventually her eyes drifted shut.

Severus didn’t wake her for lunch, so when she got up at last, she was starving. She went out to the kitchen and sat at the table, and wasn’t surprised to see Severus making sandwiches. They were large sandwiches, yes, but they weren’t particularly dinner food even by the Snape household’s standards, which were basically “fend for yourself” and “bachelor food”, which included quite a bit of Muggle takeout.

Severus served her and she ate quietly. Meals were generally had in silence. Hermione had nothing to say to him, and Severus never made an attempt to draw her into conversation. She finished her food quickly, not wanting to be around the source of her disappointment any longer than necessary, and went up to bed.

She changed into her pajamas slowly, not quite caring to go back to sleep since she had just woken up half an hour ago. In fact, she was bursting with restless energy. She headed down to the library, not caring that it would soon be past her bedtime, and recklessly grabbed a book that she knew she wasn’t supposed to have – _Moste Potente Potions_. It certainly was above her reading level, though she would never admit it, and settled down to read it in the armchair she always sat.

Despite her afternoon nap, she only went to bed at ten, which was rather late for her, but she knew Severus worked often long into the night. Quietly she walked back to her room, not bothering to turn on the light, and slipped into bed. Severus never really exercised bedtimes with her except when she had been very young, but she still usually went to bed around eight or so and woke up at six or seven.

She was just getting comfortable when she saw a book on her nightstand that she knew she hadn’t left there. Tentatively, she reached for it, not brave enough to believe it was what she thought it was, because she couldn’t take any more disappointment for one day. It was a thick hardcover book, and it wasn’t familiar in her hands. Heart racing, she switched on the bedside lamp and greedily read the cover.

 _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen. Hermione’s eyes widened, and she quickly opened the inside flap to read the summary. Her eyes devoured the words, and then she flipped through the book.

There was no message or proclamation of “Happy Birthday!”, but Hermione could read through the lines. She had never seen this book in the library, had not even known it existed, so there was no way she could have brought it to her room and left it there to read. No, this was really and truly a birthday present. Grinning madly, she ignored the wetness in her eyes and turned on her side to start reading.

The next morning, there was no acknowledgement from Severus, and Hermione didn’t dare say “thank you” in case he denied it. She knew that he had done it, as there was no one else who could have, but she didn’t want to hear him say he hadn’t done it anyway. So they sat in silence as always, and he had made eggs sunny-side up again, but she could feel herself grinning widely even as she stuffed the nasty egg yolk into her mouth.


	3. Father-Daughter Bonding III: Age Seven – Mr. Wagner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Muggles are blights on modern day society

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be a little disturbing to some, but it involves no explicit content or even content that could be made explicit. However, there is a very slight theme of child molestation - trust me, it is taken care of promptly and harshly, although the results are only implied. If this will disturb you, please let me know, and I will post a summary of this chapter in the next chapter when it gets posted so that you can continue to read the story without having to read this chapter. However, there really shouldn't be anything too triggering, in my opinion.
> 
> If you have any concerns before reading this chapter, just know that Severus is NOT the abuser. (Kind of a duh, but I understand why some might think that.) Also, please note that the events in this chapter are CRUCIAL to Hermione's development into a Dark Lady. You'll see why at the end.
> 
> Note: I have also upped the rating to Mature given the content of this chapter and future chapters (although there will be no repeats of the content in this chapter, rest assured). But like I said, this is a dark story, and I felt that it was prudent to warn people who don't want to read such content before they get too invested.

All wizards and witches learned some mathematics in their early days before Hogwarts, as well as reading and writing and magical history, the latter especially if they were pure-blood, and the histories taught tended to be biased, Severus had told her one day when he was oddly open to talking. She thought he might have had some fire whisky, but she wasn’t sure why that would be the case. She thought he might have had some Ogdens, as his breath smelled somewhat fiery, but she hadn’t been around to see it. It was a little odd that it happened on the day right after her birthday, though she couldn’t tell if there was a connection.

On Monday, she met her tutor. Mr. Wagner was a Muggle who Severus had to put up false pretenses for in order to get him to teach Hermione Muggle maths and science. The level of maths and science Mr. Wagner would supposedly be teaching her was supposed to put her leagues ahead of even Muggle-borns. Severus wouldn’t explain to her why she had to learn these things when she wouldn’t need them, but she didn’t actually need an explanation. She would be the best, no matter what anyone else said, and so she devoured the material given to her with a speed and alacrity that seemed to bewilder Mr. Wagner.

Seven months later, Mr. Wagner said he had taught Hermione all he could, that she was in middle-school maths and science now, and he wasn’t qualified to teach her any more. He was nervous and sweating, and looked like he couldn’t get out of there soon enough. Hermione was pretty sure it was because she had instinctively given him boils when he tried to touch the inside of her thigh just moments before the declaration.

Severus had looked at him for a long moment, and his eyes had paused on Mr. Wagner’s left hand, which was covered in the boils Hermione had warned him off with, and then stared deep into his eyes. Mr. Wagner stood still, looking oddly transfixed. Then, without warning, Severus pointed his wand at the Muggle and muttered, “Obliviate.”

Hermione flinched at the cold tone in Severus’s voice. Even at his angriest he had never used it on her. Mr. Wagner walked out of the house, as though under the Imperius Curse – she wasn’t supposed to know about that, but she had seen it in one of Severus’s darker books in his library – and the door slammed shut loudly behind him.

She never saw or heard from him again, but she had a feeling his end hadn't come about nicely.

Severus turned to her, his face severe. Hermione had never been more afraid of him in her life, and it occurred to her that this wasn’t the Severus she knew. There was something unmistakably Dark about him.

“He touched you?”  Severus demanded, although it sounded like he expected an affirmation.

Hermione was surprised for a moment, and then said, confusion lacing her tone, because it really wasn’t that big of a deal, “Yeah. He put his hand on my leg today. I gave him boils, though.” She thought about this a little more closely. Shortly after that, she realized, he had proclaimed he had taught her everything he could.

“Anywhere else?” Despite his demanding tone, he didn’t look surprised, but he did look expectant.

“No,” Hermione replied, even more confused now.

“Are you certain? Be absolutely honest about this, Hermione. I need to know.”

The use of her name made her realized that this was a Serious Situation.

“Nothing else happened, I swear.” And it was true.

“Good. I will be back in a moment.” He pointed at the couch in the living room. “Sit there and don’t move until I come back.”

Completely lost and a little irritated that he was ordering her around so much, Hermione went and took a seat. Five minutes passed and she started to fidget. Another five passed and she was tapping her leg restlessly against the foot of the couch, as her feet couldn’t reach the floor while sitting yet. After a total of fifteen minutes, Severus returned, looking satisfied.

“Go to the library,” he told her, and Hermione obeyed, as she would have gone there anyways now that she was dismissed.

The new tutor was a woman, though, and as Hermione climbed to greater and greater heights in her education, she noticed that every single tutor afterward was unmistakably female. It wasn’t until she read a particularly adult book by a famous Muggle author that had been buried deep in the library that she realized what Severus had been worried about with Mr. Wagner, and afterwards she vomited into the toilet until there was nothing left in her stomach.

The book was _Lolita_ by Vladimir Nabokov.


	4. Father-Daughter Bonding IV: Age Nine – Accidental or Wandless?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which wandless magic is supposed to be hard to learn and Hermione gives zero fucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're past the dark stuff! (For now.) Here's a tiny bit of fluff to end your day the right way!

Hermione had exhausted Severus’s supply of tutors by the time she was nine and a half and then turned back to teaching herself new things – specifically magic. The problem was that she didn’t have a wand with which to take advantage of her abilities and found herself frustrated with the fact that she couldn’t learn the really important stuff, the stuff that would make a difference in her goals.

Because realizing what she could have gone through with Mr. Wagner if she hadn’t had her magic had given her a deep-seated hatred of Muggles, excepting only her real parents. She understood why Voldemort had done what he’d done, why he’d hated them so much – although she was pretty sure it was for a completely different reason – and she couldn’t help but say she agreed with him. It didn’t improve him any in her eyes, but it given her a new tack for her goal, which for the past two and a half years had been to kill him.

But she decided that it wasn’t enough to just kill him. She was going to not only kill him, but she would beat him at his own game. It was a dangerous feeling, the ambition to be the greatest Dark witch of the century, and certainly of the new millennia. She would be greater than Grindelwald, greater than Voldemort; after all, she had read their histories extensively, and she could see every part where they went wrong.

She would be building off the legacy of two very powerful Dark wizards, and she would correct their mistakes and prove herself greater than them – but even though beating out Grindelwald would be good, beating out Voldemort was much more important. Given that Voldemort was more feared even in his death than Grindelwald had been in life – not even history books would say his name except in the opening paragraph – she was pretty sure she could kill two birds with one stone there.

She started with an old copy of _Standard Book of Spells Grade 3_. She couldn’t find any copies of Grade 1 or 2, and from the state of Grade 3, it was possibly older than Severus and clearly outdated. It was the easiest spell book she could acquire, though, and so she had to begin there.

There were plenty of spells to choose from, but the most immediately useful, especially for her plan, was the Disarming Charm.

Unfortunately, she had no one to practice disarming, as she was certain that telling Severus she was going to teach herself wandless magic was a Bad Idea. So, given her restrictions, she began with the Freezing Charm, and stole a glass of water to take to her room. She wasn’t supposed to have food or drink in her bedroom, but she figured that what Severus didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Or her.

So she sat there, with only the vaguest of ideas on how to do this, and tried to windlessly freeze the cup.

All she did was make her hand hurt from tensing it for so long.

Then she tried waving, twisting, and pointing, all with no effect. She knew she was saying the charm correctly, so why wasn’t it working?

She figured that wandless magic was very hard otherwise wands wouldn’t be so important, so she spent two hours every day, more if she could, on trying to freeze the cup.

After a week, she had made absolutely zero progress.

She considered possibly an easier spell. There was the Seize and Pull Charm and the Mending Charm, but an attempt with them was even harder. She was pretty sure at one point she actually made the tear in the rag worse, and gave up on that one lest Severus catch on to what she was doing.

Finding that Grade 3 spells were just too ambitious to start with, Hermione started watching Severus closely while he did magic. Some things he did nonverbally, which was particularly frustrating, but she kept an eye out.

After another week of useless wandless attempts and studying Severus closely, she found a spell that looked attainable: The Levitation Charm. And it was useful to boot.

She started, embarrassingly enough, with toilet paper.

And after nearly a month of trying, she thought she had done it at last – or rather, gotten it to twitch a little. Then she noticed the window was open and it was possible the breeze had made it move.

As it turned out, it had been the breeze after all.

But she dedicated her time to it, although she began to lose hope and went from practicing an average of two hours a day to one hour and eventually a half hour.

Then, on one Saturday morning, she half-heartedly waved her hand at the toilet paper leaf in what she was considering to be her last time and muttered, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

It twitched.

She glanced at the window. It was shut tight.

She looked upwards to check if the ceiling fan was on, even though she knew she didn’t have one. Hope was a dangerous thing.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione said as clearly as possible, “Wingardium Leviosa” and waved her hand in what she thought was the same way – after all, she hadn’t really been expecting that last try to work.

The toilet paper twitched again, a little harder this time.

And with renewed vigor, Hermione practiced for days and days, until one day, it finally levitated properly, like it had when Severus did it.

She shrieked so loud that Severus came rushing to the door. It was in that moment that she realized that he _was_ aware of her and perhaps some part did care, because if he really wasn’t concerned about her being in danger, he wouldn’t have come, and definitely not a quickly as he did. But she was too excited to properly examine that realization.

Severus looked rather annoyed, though, when all he saw was her smiling face.

“I did it!” she cried, and in a moment of childish excitement – what she would later consider recklessness, because she had told herself she wouldn’t spill her secrets – she waved her hand and repeated the spell. The toilet paper lifted obediently into the air and hovered there.

Severus’s eyes widened almost comically, but he was able to compose himself fast enough that Hermione was almost certain she had imagined it. “Where did you learn that?” he asked.

“I taught myself!” she said proudly. “And-”

“Why on earth would you-” he started, interrupting her, before apparently answering his own question mentally and rubbing his temples. He gathered himself and said, “Come.”

Hermione, starting to realize that what she had done was not actually a Good Thing, followed him, a little sullenly. Why did he always have to ruin everything?

But then all he did was explain that she was not to tell anyone about this, especially not figures of authority. She was already pleasantly surprised that he wasn’t telling her to stop, but at the end, he gave her a tip, which sent her over the moon.

“Twitch your hand like this,” he instructed her, and Hermione copied it, trying to lift a piece of parchment containing a mail order for Veritaserum. She had seen him chuck it angrily aside and write a scathing note back, or so she assumed given his expression as he wrote it. The parchment rose, quavering just a little as it did, given the increased weight, and Hermione beamed.

Severus nodded in approval, and Hermione clapped her hands. This caused the parchment to fall down again, but she was too happy to care.

And then he told her, “Try _Lumos_ next,” but wouldn’t tell her what it did.

So Hermione, feeling closer to Severus than she ever had in her life – she told herself that she wasn’t happy about it, but it was necessary if she was going to keep learning wandless magic – practiced the spell until she could conjure a ball of light on her index finger. Then, just to impress him – no, she was just proving to herself that she could do it, of course that was it – but deep down, although she would never, _ever_ admit it to herself or anybody else that maybe, just _maybe_ it would be nice to see his eyes widen in surprise, not approval though, definitely not, and _of course_ she still hated him – she practiced until she could manage four balls of light on the tips of each of her fingers. Her thumb just didn’t want to cooperate, and she figured it was impressive enough anyway.

She showed him one evening at dinner, and he told her another spell to try. She mastered this one, although it took nearly a month – things were going more quickly now that she knew the feel of manipulating her magic  – and he continued to give her spells to work on one at a time. When she asked about the restriction on magic because of her age, he told her that she was young enough that they would just think she was very emotional. Hermione wasn’t sure she liked this possible assessment, but she wasn’t going to give up practicing wandless magic.

And that was how dinnertime became rife with conversation as Hermione spent eight hours a day practicing, because if she mastered a spell, Severus would instruct her in a new one and sometimes they’d end up in the living room while she tried to learn everything she could about the spell.

Hermione refused to acknowledge that her hard work was spurred on by the attention from her…from Severus.

But if she _was_ going to admit it, and she was covert enough as she watched him, she thought that maybe he was enjoying their conversations, too.


	5. Father-Daughter Bonding V: Age Ten – L. Malfoy and the Dragon’s Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione makes her first real ally, and honestly, it’s a pretty damn good choice.

Christmas was never a particularly cheery time in the Snape household. Severus never bothered to put up a Christmas tree, or make a special dinner, and there wasn’t much “family bonding time,” as Hermione had never cared for Severus’s company – although she had started rethinking that since he had started aiding her in wandless magic in early April – and he had never displayed much care for hers, either. And because of her lack of experience in normal family life, Hermione wasn’t aware of the tradition of Santa Claus or Saint Nick that she would have learned about with her Muggle parents – Severus would never encourage such frivolities in his household. However, she did receive presents, most often a book or two and maybe some Honeydukes chocolate if she was lucky. She knew they were from Severus, and she got the feeling that it was perhaps something parents did for their children on Christmas, but she never thought it to be a very big deal. It was a much bigger deal to have received a birthday present those three years ago, and to her pleasant surprise, he had continued to get her birthday presents since then. And furthermore, on her tenth birthday, Severus had gotten her a copy of the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1._ Hermione, now quite used to wandless magic and how it felt, had learned almost every spell in the book. Of course, most of the spells Severus had been giving her to learn over those six months prior had been taken from it, so that wasn’t saying much.

This year, though, Hermione was a girl on a mission. She would never have considered it before now, but she was starting to, well, not _like_ , but she was able to tolerate Severus in larger amounts now, and he didn’t seem to object to her company nearly so much except when he was brewing.

One day, in her excitement of having learned _Alohamora,_ she had happily used it to unlock the basement where Severus brewed and intruded. He hadn’t liked that too much, and had nearly yelled himself hoarse at her. Hermione sulked for a good three days when he did not come to apologize but eventually forgave him, although she had never so much as looked down the stairs that led to his laboratory since.

This Christmas, Hermione had decided to get Severus a Christmas present. She knew he received a pair of woolen socks, always a different pattern, every Christmas, although she did not know from whom. He also was given a bottle of Ogdens from someone she knew as L. Malfoy, though she had never met him either – for some reason, she automatically had assumed it was a man, and had never once questioned why she thought it was. She didn’t know if Severus gave anybody Christmas presents other than herself, but she liked to think that whoever L. Malfoy was and the Mysterious Sock-Sender received gifts in turn for their generosity.

Well, she wasn’t foolish enough to assume that Mysterious Sock-Sender ever got anything in return. Severus usually sneered distastefully and used _Incendio_ on them, although he at least went through the motions of unwrapping them first.

But it gave Hermione a starting point. Severus would definitely not enjoy a pair of socks, so they were clearly out of the question. Really though, who sent someone like him hot pink socks with garish blue-and-white fairies that sang ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ when they were touched?

She had thought long and hard about what he might appreciate for Christmas. She didn’t really go places outside of Spinner’s End except for Diagon Alley, occasionally Hogsmeade, and one very interesting trip to Muggle London – she had never figured out if it was because Severus wanted to hide her for whatever reason or if it was because Severus himself never really left Spinner’s End either – so it was obvious to her that she would have to make something for him herself. Even if she could leave, she had no money to spend, much less a way to get to a store that sold something he might like.

There was also the problem of getting Severus something he would actually value. She knew that anything sentimental was useless to him, because even though they could tolerate each other, they didn’t like each other. Sure, Severus had initiated teaching her magic, but she doubted he would have if she hadn’t already proven herself capable. She knew that he had always done the bare minimum as her guardian, because he wasn’t a parent in any sense of the word, and she told herself, increasingly firmly and frequently as the years passed, that it didn’t bother her.

Although she had read Shakespeare, she had never taken the time to apply ‘the lady doth protest too much’ to her own thoughts and feelings.

So, one freezing December morning, Hermione bundled up in her warmest clothes and trooped out to the backyard for some good, old-fashioned hard thinking. She sat down on the rickety steps leading to the yard, propped her chin on her palm, and stared out, unseeing, into the scenery before her.

What would be something that Severus might find useful? He didn’t really like anything she knew of, much less could appropriate and give to him, so getting something for his enjoyment wasn’t going to work. She considered the limited amount of magic she knew, and then listed mentally what hobbies she had that involved making anything tangible. There weren’t many, although she had taken up knitting a few years ago simply because she thought it might be interesting. She had forgotten about it completely since she started with the wandless magic, but on further consideration, she was pretty sure she could pick it up again.

But what would she knit? Socks?

She snorted derisively at the thought of what Severus might do if he received two pairs of socks, one garish and ridiculous and the other poorly executed, for Christmas and quickly moved on.

For a minute, she let her mind wander, and didn’t bother to censor it for her own good. If she were to go insane tomorrow and decide to get Severus something personal, what would she get him? She wasn’t very good at drawing, so a picture of something pretty or pleasing was out. There was no camera to be found anywhere in the house, and obviously he wouldn’t pose for a picture of them so that she could put it in a frame and give it to him, so that was also out. She could write him a letter…no, that was just ludicrous, because even if they had been getting along better, she still didn’t have much good to say about him.

She changed tack. What were his interests? Potions, obviously. But she couldn’t order any potions ingredients without charging it to him, and if she were to do that, he may as well have done it himself. She knew he also liked the Dark Arts because his library and many of the books in the living room were about them, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t be too pleased to discover she had been reading them, even though he surely couldn’t have expected her to avoid such useful knowledge.

She thought about getting him a book, but that brought her to the same conundrum as getting him potions ingredients: if he wanted it, he could just buy it himself. Hermione was at a loss.

And then she had an ingenious idea.

If this L. Malfoy knew Severus well enough to give him a Christmas present, albeit never visit, Hermione thought that he might be able to give her an idea of what she could get Severus. Struck by her ingenuity, she hurried inside and to the room where the family owl was kept. Perces was an old owl who had plucked quite a bit of himself and was very grouchy, but he got the job done. He was a bit like Severus, she thought. Quickly grabbing a piece of parchment, she began to draft her letter.

It took a few tries due to painful wording, but in the end it read:

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_My name is Hermione Snape. I know we have never met, but I am Severus’s daughter. He has spoken very highly of you in the past, and that it why I am writing to you. I am at a loss as to what to get my father for Christmas. If you have any thoughts on what he might like, I would appreciate a response at you earliest convenience._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Snape_

It was short but sweet, and Hermione wasted no time putting L. Malfoy’s name on the envelope and then telling Perces, “Can you take this to Mr. Malfoy, Severus’s friend?”

For all that Perces was grouchy and mean, he was very intelligent, and after she had tied it to his leg, he took off, flapping gustily in the cold winter air.

Hermione sighed. All she could do now was hope that she received a response before Christmas, and that she wasn’t ignored altogether.

* * *

 It was quite possible that Lucius Malfoy had never read a more interesting letter. Sitting his in den by the roaring fireplace, his eyes scanned the perfect cursive on the parchment yet another time and his lips quirked in the slightest hint of amusement.

“Dobby!” he called curtly.

The house-elf appeared in an instant, cowering already. “Yes, Master?”

“Go fetch Narcissa,” Lucius ordered, then took a sip of his Merlot. Dobby left with a _crack!_

A few moments later, his wife strode into the room. “Yes, dear?” she said, sounding vaguely annoyed. “I was in the middle of arranging the Christmas ball.”

“Look at this,” Lucius replied without acknowledging her objection. He handed her the letter.

His wife’s eyebrows raised the very slightest, and only a trained Slytherin would have been able to notice her surprise. She scanned the letter’s contents a few more times and then looked up. From the small curl of her lips, she was no longer annoyed at the interruption.

“How interesting,” she said noncommittally, though Lucius could see the subtle curiosity in her eyes. “Are you going to respond?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he replied in the same tone. However, they had been married for a while now, and known each other for even longer, and they were adept at reading each other’s expressions despite each having been trained in the art of deception and covertness.

Narcissa stood and began to walk away. Over her shoulder, she commented casually, “I’ve heard dragon’s blood is rather expensive these days, especially the Norwegian Horntail’s.”

Lucious nodded briefly in acknowledgement and went back to studying the letter.

* * *

 The letter Hermione received from L. Malfoy – whom she now knew as Lucius – had been more than she could have ever dreamed. The bottle of dragon’s blood, already neatly wrapped, as well as a cordial if not vague letter, kept her buoyed all the way to Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, Hermione could barely sleep. She admitted to herself that she was nervous. It wasn’t so much that she was worried that Severus wouldn’t like her gift, she insisted firmly, but when she searched for other reasons, she found that there weren’t any readily discernable.

Lying in bed in the dark, Hermione sighed dismally and finally acknowledged the fact that maybe, just _maybe_ , she wanted Severus to be happy about her gift and be appreciative that she had thought of him. Maybe he would even thank her, or…

Hermione tried to analyze this more carefully. What, exactly, was she hoping for Severus to do? He might say “thank you,” and that might be nice, but somehow she felt she wanted more. But what did more look like?

The honest truth was that she had no idea.

Morning came bright and early with fresh snowfall on the ground outside. Hermione’s eyes popped open as though a spell had backfired right by her ear, and with a glance at the clock, she saw that it was half past eight. She sat up and stretched lazily before getting out of bed and quickly snatching the wrapped vial of dragon’s blood from the drawer of her nightstand. She quickly hid it behind her back and then trooped down the hallway to where the presents sat on the dining table.

Severus wasn’t awake yet, although she knew it would be any minute now. She noticed the bottle-shaped present that would be the Ogdens as well as a lumpy package that she knew to be the socks. There were five presents for her, she saw to her astonishment – she only usually got two or three. Two were quite obviously books, but the others were in shapes that gave no clear idea as to what they were.

She had just placed her gift to Severus next to the Ogdens and seated herself when Severus came down the hallway and noticed her.

“Happy Christmas,” she greeted quietly and fidgeted in nerves when he nodded blearily and grunted before taking his usual seat.

Severus nodded again in a gesture meant to indicate she open her gifts. Deciding to start with the obvious, Hermione opened one of the presents that was clearly a book. It was _Hogwarts: A History_ , and as she took in the glossy cover, she felt a zing of excitement go through her, and she grinned brightly, anxiety temporarily forgotten.

“Thanks!”

She quickly moved on to the next present. It was a children’s guide to potions and looked worn and battered, and she somehow knew that this wasn’t on the Hogwarts curriculum. However, as she wasn’t able to start learning potions until she turned eleven and got her potions equipment at Diagon Alley, she was a little confused, but thought it might make good reading anyway.

Setting the potions guide away, she opened the largest present there, and once the wrapping was pulled entirely away, she realized that it was a miniature cauldron, but she could tell that it was very high quality. She glanced at Severus curiously, but his expression was inscrutable, and all he did was nod for her to continue.

The next present was a basic potions ingredients kit. An idea was forming in her mind, and she almost couldn’t believe it. However, the last package was exactly what she thought it might be: the rest of the necessities for potions brewing.

She couldn’t help but blurt, “Are you going to start teaching me potions?”

Severus was still watching her with that blank, unreadable expression. “If you wish.”

Hermione wouldn’t have said no even if she still hated him like she used to. “I do!”

He nodded, and she thought that he might have been pleased with her answer if the twitch of his lips was any indication.

Then he unceremoniously picked up the package of socks, opened it, and then set the socks aflame with a glower and a flick of his wand. This year they were brown with yellow canaries that chirped the tune of “Odo the Hero” but only got through the two opening chords before bursting into flame.

Severus unwrapped the Ogdens and set it aside, but when confronted with a third presented, he hesitated. He did several nonverbal spells that were probably investigative before Hermione said tentatively, “It’s from me.”

His eyes met hers searchingly, and then he picked up the cylindrical present and gently unwrapped it. The pint of dark green Norwegian Horntail blood glinted brightly in the morning light, and then Severus looked up at her.

“How did you acquire this?”

Hermione paused, not sure how to answer him. She wanted it to be from her, and she didn’t want to bring Mr. Malfoy into the conversation, but she thought it might be inevitable. “I asked for help from one of your friends and they gave me something to give you.”

Severus didn’t miss a beat. “You contacted Lucius?”

Hermione froze, unsure of how he had come so quickly to the conclusion, but nodded warily as soon as she regained her composure.

“Be careful around him, Hermione.”

She nodded in response, despite being desperately confused.

But she was broken out of it when Severus stood, walked over to her, and gingerly hugged her. It was barely a pat on the back and he was leaning over but not exactly touching her, and for a moment she was too surprised to response, but just as he was pulling away, she hugged him back tightly.

Severus seemed to freeze, but then he relaxed for a moment before they both quickly and mutually pulled away. His eyes were averted and Hermione stared at the ground resolutely, but she had had her question from the night before answered.

A “thank you” would have been nice, but a hug was exactly what she had been hoping for.

No one was more surprised about it than she.


	6. Father-Daughter Bonding VI: Age Ten - He Has a WHAT? Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione learns something of Severus’s past and neither is happy about the other’s reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story has taken me by storm. I should be focusing on my other stories, but this one just grabbed my brain and declared sovereignty. So there's that.
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> This is the first part of three chapters that are kind of like a mini-arc within an arc. Here there be cliffhangers. I'm sorry - there was nothing I could do.
> 
> Also, Surprise, Bitches! now has one and a half future arcs planned, all the way up to the Sorting. I can say now definitively that there will be both Dramione and Tomione in this story, but Tomione is going to take some time to develop. After all, she's only like, 11 right now. Be patient. I also cannot say whether Hermione will end up with Draco, Tom/Voldemort, or BOTH. There's just no telling at this point. Who knows? At the end she might not be with anybody. As I've said before, this story is writing itself - I'm just the fingers.
> 
> Enjoy!

Hermione, while not an immediate Potions superstar like she imagined Severus had been when he first started, was also not terrible at them. It was surprising to her as the most she could do in the kitchen, even when following a recipe, was scramble eggs (with pickled beetle eyes in them, she remembered in a moment of hilarity) and maybe, _maybe_ she could accomplish toast without it being too horribly ruined.

But Potions wasn’t like cooking, she found, even though one had to follow a recipe in the same, if not a more deliberate and meticulous manner. Perhaps it was because it involved magic, which she was already tremendously good at, if the way she could do a few stirs with wandless magic was any indication. (But she couldn’t keep it going for long before she risked an explosion, as had happened the first time she had tried it. _Severus_ had done it, though, frequently, and she saw no reason why she couldn’t either. Still, after the explosion, she knew she had a bit more cut out for her when it came to wandless magic than she had initially imagined.)

She was working on a simple Boil Cure Potion under Severus’s vague supervision—he was working on his own task, which was clearly much more intricate and important than hers and giving the lack of a book beside him, Hermione liked to think that maybe he was experimenting and going to make a whole new potion. She had learned early on that Severus made his money from mail orders for potions, some from independent buyers but also for St. Mungo’s when they needed particularly difficult ones.

It had been two months since Christmas by now. Hermione had started brewing the very day that she had gotten her gifts, and although she didn’t spend hours on end doing them like Severus did—after all, she wasn’t the one being paid for it, and her potions weren’t good enough to sell anyways—she tried to make at least one potion a day. She had to admit that she was a little frustrated at not being able to move beyond first-year potions, because she was being taught by a Potions _Master_ and she hated being stuck so far behind, but she also understood that she was literally ten years old, a whole year younger than most children were when they first starting brewing _anything_.

So she quashed her frustration and focused on adding the Horned slugs.

While the potion simmered, she glanced over at Severus. He was concentrating hard the on the potion he was working on, and she noticed that the long sleeves of his shirt had ridden up quite a bit. Since she had never seen more of him than his face, hands, and just a little below the ankle when he got out of bed in the morning, she was enthralled to see his forearms.

They were thin, but not unhealthily so. Pale, because that was just Severus. But then, on his left forearm, she suddenly noticed a blackened bruise. It was fading, but it was so _black_ , and Hermione had had plenty enough bruises in her life to know that _that wasn’t normal._

Uncharacteristic concern flooded her. Sure, she didn’t hate him as much as she had when she was six, but she still didn’t really like him all that much. Nonetheless, her heart thumped painfully at the sight of such a wound and, completely forgetting her potion, she scampered over to him with an exclamation of surprise and worry.

Startled, he looked up from his potion, glaring at the interruption, but Hermione didn’t care for his angry expression. She never had. Never once had she truly feared Severus. So when she stumbled over and gripped his arm to examine it, she was surprised at the force with which he tore himself away from her.

But she was relentless. “Severus, you’re hurt! You need to go to-”

His gaze was frosty. “No, Hermione. I’m fine.” And he quickly pulled down the sleeves of his shirt so that the dark bruise was hidden.

“But that bruise was-!”

“It’s not a bruise, you silly chit.”

Hermione normally would have been cross with him and folded her arms in a no-nonsense manner, but when she saw the expression on his face, something in it caused her to hesitate. Suddenly she was very nervous. “It’s not…a bruise? But then…what is it? It looks like it hurts!”

She was too caught up in her concern to realize that this was very much not the behavior of a not-daughter who hated her not-father. Had it been just a few years ago she would not have cared at all—might have even thought, well, he deserved it for being so mean to her. None of these thoughts would occur to her for a few hours or so though, and she would then hate herself for them.

Severus sighed, sounding like the world had suddenly tossed itself on his shoulders. His posture failed him and he slumped, looking like the most put-upon parent in the history of man.

“Do you really want to know?” Despite his question, it appeared he had every intention of telling her even though he clearly did not want to and would not if on the off chance she said no.

Ever contrary to his wishes, she said, “Yes!” impatiently.

With two flicks of his wands, the potions were put in stasis, and Severus motioned her up the laboratory stairs towards the living room. She followed, not quite eagerly because she wasn’t so cruel that she wished him to be in pain, but there was a bubble of excitement because for once he was actually going to tell her something!

She had no idea how little she wanted to know about the subject they were about to discuss.

Severus took a seat on the armchair he always chose, and for that reason it was His Armchair, and Hermione took a seat on the couch adjacent. When he didn’t immediately speak, she said, “So?”

“You’re aware of the Dark Lord?” he said, sounding wearier than she had ever heard him.

“Voldemort?” She winced when he made a strangled grunt of anger at her and quickly rectified the mistake. “I mean, You-Know-Who. Yeah, I’ve read all about him.”

Severus nodded. “Then you know all about the Dark Mark?”

“Um…maybe?”

Severus went on to explain the mark that would be left in the sky after a raid or killing spree done by Voldemort’s Death Eaters and a very detailed description of the Dark Mark that had been put on the Inner Circle’s left forearms and its abilities. Hermione felt herself growing colder and colder, although not with fear, as Severus went on. The coldness could be identified almost as jealousy, that someone had come up with such an ingenious idea before she was even born, and that that someone wasn’t worthy of having such a good idea. She didn’t think Severus would want to hear any of her thoughts on the matter, though.

And then finally he slid down his sleeve and Hermione took in the faded snake and skull, and she felt suddenly like she had been gutted like a pig.

Severus was on Voldemort’s side. You didn’t get the Mark by being with the opposition. And while Hermione understood that she wouldn’t have wanted Severus to be a light wizard—no, that would have been terrible, too, but she had always known from the material in the house that such a thing was impossible—it was somehow worse that he had once sided with her mortal enemy, the man who was ultimately responsible for her parents’ deaths.

Oh…but Severus didn’t know that she knew about Death Eaters killing her parents. She had only ever been told that they had been bad people, and if not for her eidetic memory, she would have believed them.

Tears flooded her eyes as the revelation that Severus was partially responsible for the deaths of her parents—her _real_ parents, not this pathetic mock-up of what a family life should be like. He had supported that side if he had the Dark Mark, and why he wasn’t in Azkaban, she would probably never know. But something in her turned icy, and through teary, furious eyes she glared up at him.

“How could you?” she hissed. Without thought, she went on to say shrilly, “ _They killed my parents!_ ”

At this, Severus flinched, as if that was the last thing he had ever expected her to say.

“Hermione-”

“No! NO! NO!” Hermione wailed. “I almost liked you! I thought maybe-maybe we could-but you! You killed them! You took my mommy and daddy away from me! YOU KILLED THEM!”

Crying hysterically, she bolted out of the room and ran to her bedroom, where she slammed the door shut and wailed and wept and sobbed terribly for the rest of the night.

Severus didn’t come to try to comfort her, either, and a part of her had at least wanted him to _deny it._ Maybe have some shame! But no…he didn’t care. He never had.

He never would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said...cliffhangers. I apologize in advance. It only gets worse from here.


	7. Father-Daughter Bonding VII: Age Ten – He Has a WHAT? Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione acts her age for the first time in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the short chapter, but there was literally no way to make it longer - it wrote itself this way, and I respected it for it. XD Anyways, though, the next chapter should be up soon. We're getting towards the end of the Father-Daughter Bonding arc. :)

 

Hermione did not come out of her room for two days except sneaking out to go to the bathroom. Severus left plates of food in front of the door for her, for once actually respecting her wishes and doing something nice. But that didn’t matter. Doing something nice only when someone was angry at you meant that you weren’t really a good person, just trying to take advantage of the situation.

Hermione denied dinner that night and breakfast the next morning, but when lunchtime came around, she was too hungry to ignore the food that had been left for her, even if she was so hurt and angry that it felt like she wouldn’t be able to stomach anything.

Towards the end of the second day, she had cooled enough that she left her room, if only to take a bath. She didn’t like being dirty, and crying and being angry was sweaty work.

But for the next two weeks, she did not speak a word to Severus. He attempted a few times to speak to her, but whenever he did, even if she had only barely touched her food, she would leave the room and not return until the next mealtime and she had to be in his presence.

Soon, her anger had faded, and so, surprisingly, had the hate. She only knew that she was so hurt, _so hurt_. When she calmed down enough to think rationally, she had been able to accept that Severus was not really responsible for her parents’ deaths—that blame lay upon the Death Eaters who had killed them and Voldemort himself, but not Severus. At least she was assured in the fact that because she had heard the Death Eater’s voices, she knew for certain that Severus had not been one of them. That would have just been too cruel.

Finally, at the beginning of week three, Hermione decided that she wanted answers. She didn’t want to hate him like she did—not because he didn’t deserve it, but because hating someone as much as she hated him was tiring and hard, especially since she was stuck with him. She might never forgive him, but she was going to at least understand why he had done it.

And if he wouldn’t tell her, then she had made the decision that she would run away. Still, first, she would try to do things the easy way.

So she approached him in his lab, unheeding of his usual anger at being interrupted. She stomped up to him, angry at first at the sight of him, but by the time she had reached him she was trembling.

“Why?” she asked, not with the strength and fury that she had imagined, but instead quietly and with great sadness.

He turned to her, eyes inscrutable. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t, instead turning back to his potion.

“Why?” she asked again—no, demanded. She didn’t really want to run away. Some part of her, very, very, very deep down, wanted to understand so that she didn’t have to.

“You’re too young to understand, Hermione.” His voice wasn’t cold, but rather just flat and tired. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

Something inside her died at that. Tears pricked her eyes and she nodded curtly before turning away and marching up the stairs.

As soon as she was in the living room and far enough away that he couldn’t hear her, Hermione began to sob all over again and began to pack her things into the Muggle suitcase she had stolen from the attic. She packed clothes that she liked and that were warm, she packed away a few books to keep her company on the run until she figured out where she was going to go—mournfully, she left _Hogwarts: A History_ behind, because even though it was her favorite book of all time it was from Severus and she had no interest in bringing his gifts with her—and she put on a jacket and her sturdiest boots.

She waited until it got dark, not coming out for dinner even though her stomach was growling, and then once she heard Severus’s footsteps go back towards the basement laboratory, she crept out of her room, wheeling her suitcase behind her.

She went out the back door, moved quietly and slowly until she was protected by the unkempt hedges that had been allowed to grow out of control, and then she ran.

Hermione had no idea where she was going, but she figured she’d know it when she got there.


	8. Father-Daughter Bonding VIII: Age Ten – He Has a WHAT? Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a lot of things change.

 

 

When Severus woke up the next morning, the previous day’s events crashed down on him like a particularly vicious waterfall. He recalled his response to his daughter the day before—the daughter he had never wanted, but had been given, and had slowly come to love over the years—and he winced. He remembered the look in her eyes, the hurt there, the anger, the betrayal, and he remembered how he had felt upon finding out about Lily’s death by the Dark Lord’s hand.

It stung him more deeply than Hermione could ever know.

So, when she refused to come out for breakfast just like she had dinner the night before, he allowed her that although he dearly wanted to order her to come eat with him. He had changed his mind the moment she had stormed away and had planned to explain it to her that night at dinner if she would still hear it, but had instead left in her peace.

When breakfast was untouched, he became angry. He couldn’t allow her to starve herself, no matter how upset she might be. So he brought lunch to give her one more chance, but he told himself at if at dinner she still hadn’t eaten anything, he would force her to come out and eat, even if he didn’t explain everything to her then.

Lunch was untouched, but he couldn’t restrain himself to wait for dinnertime. She needed to eat, and he considered that perhaps he was allowing a little too much freedom with these temper tantrums. Hermione had always been naturally disciplined and very able to govern herself, so he had let her reign free for the most part. Sometimes he even forgot that she was only a child. But now she was clearly behaving her age and he, as the parent, would have to rectify that.

He called her name, but there was no answer. He repeated it and there was still an obstinate silence. Fed up and at the end of his rope—he was never meant to be a father, he had known that after Lily—he barged into the room, ready to lecture her as necessary.

But she wasn’t there. A quick check under the bed—nothing. Closet—emptier than usual. He checked the bathroom—also empty.

A cold trickle of fear shivered down his spine. Without care for the persona he affected, he moved quickly through the house, calling her name and checking everywhere a small ten-year-old girl could fit. He checked the attic, the basement, the yard. She was nowhere to be found, but there had been one of his parents’ old suitcases missing.

He returned to the room he knew she had last been in, a worry quickly taking root in his mind. Her winter jacket was missing from its place in the closet, as well as a good few other articles of clothing. Several of her favorite books were missing. Her winter boots were missing.

Hermione had run away.

For a moment, he stood there in shock. He had never expected mature, intelligent Hermione to act like such a child, but he also knew that despite everything she affected, she still was only ten years old.

He had obviously overestimated her maturity, but at the same time, it was surprising she hadn’t run away the moment he had first told her about the Dark Mark. Still, for all that he knew he was a cynical bastard, he hadn’t expected Hermione to know the true perpetrators behind her parents’ deaths—he wasn’t sure how she knew, but she had sounded so certain that it was clear she wasn’t just guessing—and he hadn’t expected her disdain for him to become so strong.

(The truth was that for all he loved her as the daughter he had never wanted, he didn’t know her very well. Severus knew he wasn’t a good father, but he had never realized up until this point how terrible of a parent he had truly been that he didn’t even know how much his daughter must have hated him to run away like this.)

Against all reason and rationality, there was a sudden sense of abandonment and that familiar feeling of disappointment in himself. He always ran people off, even an innocent ten-year-old who shouldn’t have known any better. Crippling anger attacked him, both at himself and at Hermione, and for a moment he could only stand there in shock.

Then he came back to his senses, scolded himself for his behavior, and rushed to the Floo to tell Albus what had happened. It had already been at least twelve hours, and who knew how far she could have gotten in that time? After a quick conversation with the old codger, Severus rushed out of the house and began to search.

* * *

 Hermione was hungry, tired, lonely, and not really sure where she was going anymore. It was safe to say that she was entirely lost in the field of whatever farm she had stumbled upon. She was going to have to find help soon. Her feet were blistered, her legs were tired, her stomach was growling, and over all, she was pretty sure that running away was, in retrospect, a Very Bad Idea.

But she trundled on, because even if she had made a mistake, she sure as hell wasn’t going to walk all the way back to Spinner’s End and beg for forgiveness. At this point, Severus’s anger was sure to reflect what hers had been—all she knew was that now, she just wanted to go back in time and never have found out about the Dark Mark.

She just wanted things to go back to normal, really. But that couldn’t happen, and Severus didn’t care if things were normal or not. He hated her, just like she had always known he had, and this proved it beyond a doubt.

Her eyes wearily released a few more tears. She was tired of crying, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Her first hour of strict wandering had been full of hot anger that kept her warm and energized, but now, after missing four meals and with the sun going down for the second time, Hermione was too tired to pretend to be angry or brave.

She was ten years old, all alone in the wilderness, cold despite her warm clothing, and nobody knew or cared where she was. And secretly, she missed home, though she would never, _ever_ say it out loud.

Hermione Snape was scared though, and she freely admitted that. No bravado was going to fix this problem, no matter how much she wanted it to. She wished she had made use of the brains she had been bestowed and not gotten herself into this mess.

As much as she didn’t like it though, it seemed she was going to be stuck in it for a while.

Finally, just as the sun was obscured by clouds fully as it disappeared beneath the horizon, Hermione spotted a road. It was shoddy and created only by the worn tracks of what she imagined was a large machine of sorts—maybe a tractor, she’d read about those somewhere, though she couldn’t remember where exactly—and filled with a sudden hope, she raced towards it to see where it led.

Remembering the sun’s position, it ran vaguely east to west. Hopefully it would lead her to a farmhouse or a place she could at least bunker down for the night without worrying about wild animals.

It was already dark and the world was only lit by the full moon when Hermione vaguely made out what looked like a building of some sort. It was undoubtedly small, and she wasn’t sure if it was inhabited due to the fact that there were no lights on inside, but any shelter was better than none. She set her course and followed the trail unerringly.

It seemed like not even fifteen minutes had passed when she heard it: the sound of an inhuman howl, not quite animalistic enough to be a wolf, but definitely not quite human either. It was terrifying and turned her blood to ice, because even though she had never encountered one before, she knew what the sound was and why the only shelter had all its lights out.

There was a werewolf nearby, and since she only knew a general direction, she had no idea how long it would take for the wind to shift and her scent to be brought to its attention.

Hermione froze with fear for a long moment, and then she bolted for the house, dropping her suitcase and not caring in the slightest. It was her only hope that maybe, if she got to the house in time, she could lock herself in and stop from being killed, or worse, being turned into a werewolf herself.

(Discrimination against werewolves was obviously out of hand if it was worse to be turned into one rather than killed. However, Hermione wasn’t at a point where she could appreciate the unfairness and rather hoped at the moment that this particular werewolf would be killed before she was. Or worse.)

It was silent for a little while other than her heaving breath and the sound of desperate feet trampling the ground in an effort to reach safety. Despite her single-minded determination to stay alive and whole, she noticed with acute horror the moment the wind changed direction.

It only took a few seconds. Another howl sounded, a little closer this time, and Hermione redoubled her efforts.

There was a long, silent stillness and Hermione almost slowed down, thinking that she had lost it. Then there was a howl that came was from about the same place it had been before, and despite the fact that perhaps she was going to make it, the sound forced her to keep pumping her feet against the ground doggedly in the direction of the uninhabited house.

Another howl, closer, and now she could hear it moving towards her at a pace that she could never hope to match. She hadn’t lost it, and she was going to _die._ A ragged sob escaped her throat and she tried to run faster.

Hermione, caution blown away by the shifting of the wind and the shattering of her safety and spurred on by a growling, now excited howl, screamed as loud as she could. The wolf howled again in return and this time it was louder than ever before. If her imagination were to be believed, the wolf was already upon her and panting hotly against the back of her neck.

She screamed louder and the wolf matched her keening with equal volume and fervor.

The house was nearing, but so was the werewolf. She didn’t dare glance over her back, even though the temptation was great, because she knew the moment she took her eyes off her goal she’d falter and then it would be all over.

The next howl was close enough to hurt her eardrums, and she could hear frantic, elated panting. She couldn’t help it—she glanced over her shoulder, and as she had initially imagined she would, she tripped when she saw how close the werewolf was.

“HELP!” she bellowed as loud as she could, but the werewolf was already leaping at her, jaws wide and teeth bared, ready to sink into her flesh-

_“Sectumsempra!”_

Despite the fact that she hadn’t been harmed, Hermione was still sprayed with blood. The howl had turned into a weak whimper and there was a heavy thud several yards back where the werewolf had been thrown by the force of the spell, panting heavy.

In shock, Hermione stared at the fallen beast. It was bleeding heavily from the wound that bisected its chest and face, but it seemed there was more blood on her than on it. It wasn’t going to survive and she felt no shame at her relief. The werewolf whimpered once again, a weak, dying sound, and then was still.

Hermione stared at the body for a long time—or at least it felt like it. She wouldn’t have known. Now that the initial shock was wearing off, she realized that the dead creature in front of her was, twenty-nine days of the month, a human being who struggled to stay alive just as she had during the chase. She or he, Hermione couldn’t tell which, was dead, gone forever. There would be no return from it; it was completely and entirely permanent.

She was brought back to the present by harsh panting and then someone grasping her and lifting her up roughly but with an afterthought of care.

“Are you hurt?” Hermione stared blankly at the person who was checking her over for injuries at that very moment, who had briefly looked terrified as they looked at her with all the blood and the dirt stains and her dried sweat, who had _saved her life._

“S-Severus?” she whispered, warmth flooding her body at the sight of him like it never had before. She was suddenly bursting with an emotion she couldn’t name—or rather, wouldn’t—but she would admit that she had never been happier to see anyone in her entire life, not even her rea- _other_ parents.

Because Severus, whether he liked it or not, whether _she_ liked it or not, now qualified as a parent. Parents saved their children, took care of them, and…worried about them.

Because there was clear worry in his expression like Hermione had never seen before. She hadn’t realized how expressionless Severus was until he showed real, true emotion.

“ _Are you hurt?_ ” he reiterated, sounding harsher than she imagined he meant to.

Hermione shook her head. She was trembling. “N-no…but I lost my suitcase.”

Severus sighed in relief but gave her one last look-over as though he didn’t quite dare to hope, and said with a weary voice, “We’ll find it.”

Still in shock, Hermione followed Severus as he used a Point-Me charm. As soon as he cast it and began to walk in the direction of her things with Hermione following close behind, Hermione asked, “Is that how you found me?”

“Yes, with some modifications,” Severus replied. His tone was soft, and Hermione was fleetingly surprised that he wasn’t terribly furious with her. Then she decided that she didn’t care if he was angry forever; she was just glad he had saved her.

That he had proved once and for all that he did care about her, enough to risk his own life to make sure she lived.

They found her suitcase, which had been torn apart and shredded as well as everything that had been inside. Hermione blanched at the sight of all her favorite things destroyed, but Severus said, “Be grateful. Things can be replaced, but you cannot. Your suitcase is likely what saved your life; the werewolf was attracted to it before it turned its attention to you.”

Hermione nodded, accepting that with grace she might not have normally. Then Severus held out his hand and said, “It’s late. We’re going to Apparate. Hold on tight.”

Hermione gripped his hand tightly, the first time she had ever held his hand, and with a sucking, spinning, nauseatingly tight motion, they reappeared in the yard of Spinner’s End.

When she finally saw the house in all its dilapidated glory, Hermione finally returned to herself, and she immediately burst out in tears and gripped Severus’s leg, unwilling to let go over her safety net.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry, I’m so so so so sorry!” and the babbling went on for a while until Severus finally picked her up, cradled her in his arms in a way he had never done for a child and carried her into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they really do just leave a transformed werewolf dead out in the wilderness. Hermione was nearly just killed by it and Severus hasn’t really had that great of an experience with werewolves either. Probably Severus reported it to Dumbledore, but from there, neither Severus nor Hermione care, and so it will not be expounded upon in this story. Remember: Dark Lady Hermione. Dark Lords/Ladies are NOT nice.


	9. Father-Daughter Bonding Final: Age Eleven—The Last Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are finally as they should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter - it's the final part of the Father-Daughter Bonding arc. Up next is the Malfoy Manor arc. Those chapters are coming a lot more slowly, but only insomuch as that they are a lot longer as a whole than the average FDB arc chapters. Also, a lot more characters to write for, even if it's all in Hermione's POV, so I have a little more to juggle with this new arc. Still, it's coming along splendidly if I do say so myself, and although updates may be markedly slower, hopefully they will be just as if not more satisfying!
> 
> Please enjoy!

They sat over breakfast, Hermione chattering excitedly over her admission into Hogwarts, even though she had known it was inevitable since she had first been taken in by Severus. A wizard wouldn’t take in a squib, after all. They had gone to Diagon Alley the day before, and Severus had reluctantly allowed her to buy readings for reference. Hermione knew he was only reluctant because of the extra expense, but she knew that money wouldn’t be a problem anymore now that Severus had been invited to take over Horace Slughorn’s position at Hogwarts as the Potions Professor. Hermione wasn’t sure how to feel about being taught by her own father, but she had been assured—as well as warned—that nepotism was not something that he was going to encourage.

Hermione was satisfied with that, happy even. She didn’t want her grades marred by the fact that her father was one of the teachers.

Things had changed since Hermione had run away. Severus had truly taken up the position of father and not just an older housemate, setting bed times and wake-up times and rules around the house that were to be obeyed. Hermione wasn’t terribly happy about it at first, so used to being her own boss, but her newfound admiration and—at the time she had not dared acknowledge it, but she did now—love for her _father_ , a real father, not just in name—kept her from disobeying too frequently, and soon she found that the rules made things easier in some ways, harder in others, but none of it was unbearable.

They had had the talk—a surely abridged talk—about why Severus had joined the Death Eaters and why he had repented. He was scant with details about the latter, and Hermione got the idea that there was a big secret she wasn’t allowed to know. However, unlike how she would have handled it prior to running away, she respected Severus’s boundaries and let sleeping dogs lie, as it were.

Now, she even called him “Father.” He still wasn’t the kind of person to be called “Dad” or “Daddy,” but he deserved “Father.” And even though at times she didn’t feel like she had earned it with her past behavior, she knew she was also considered “Daughter.”

She had never known what it was like to be family before. Yes, she remembered when she was very little, but this was different. It was with a different person, perhaps not the ideal person she would have thought once upon a time, but she had accepted that having real parents before didn’t mean that Severus couldn’t be a real parent now.

“-and I’ve already memorized all the spells for Grade 1, and I can do them wandlessly, so I don’t even have to-”

“Hermione, we’ve had this discussion. You will not show _anyone_ that you can do wandless magic. Not even at Hogwarts. You’ll have to learn to use a wand like everyone else.”

Before the Incident, Hermione would have argued. However, she knew now that Severus knew what he was talking about. “I can still practice though, can’t I? If I’m secret and hide it?”

Severus sighed wearily, and that was as much permission as she was going to get. “If I see you doing it, you will lose points, no matter which House you are Sorted into,” he warned half-heartedly.

Hermione knew that the Incident had affected her father, too. He wasn’t soft, per se, with her, but he made an effort to show that he cared. It was enough for her.

Sometimes, when she was lying in bed alone at night, she wished that the Incident had happened earlier, because all she had needed from him was to know that he _cared_. He didn’t even have to love her—though she knew he did, as he would say it occasionally, especially to express pride—but just to _care_. And now that the dam had been broken, he was more willing to share those gentler emotions with her.

“Okay,” she agreed, stuffing another bite of French toast into her mouth, and they both knew that she would practice and that she would also not get caught.

Hermione was pretty sure that she was either heading towards Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Since her father was going to be the Head of Slytherin House, she hoped for Ravenclaw, but she wasn’t going to argue with the Sorting Hat. Not only was it not worth it, but she inexplicably trusted the Hat despite knowing very little about it.

“I will be leaving tomorrow at nine to go to Hogwarts,” Severus told her. Hermione nodded; this wasn’t the first she had heard of this. “Since you cannot come with me, you’ll be staying with Lucius Malfoy and his wife, Narcissa. They have a son your age named Draco, but I’m sure you already know that. I expect you to be polite and obey them as though they were me.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. She had never met Lucius Malfoy, despite having corresponded with him occasionally over the years, usually around Christmastime, when he would, without prompting, send her a letter with a package to give to Severus for Christmas. Hermione would reply always with a thank-you note and a little update as to how things were going, and sometimes he would write back to give her tidbits about general goings-on in the Wizarding World, usually involving politics and blood purity, but sometimes he wouldn’t. Hermione always made sure that she had sent the last letter, as she wouldn’t want him to think that she was ignoring him.

However, she had only heard about Draco in passing, and Lucius had mentioned his wife but never by name.

She had to admit, she was rather excited about going to stay with the Malfoys, even if their surname meant “Bad Faith” in French. She was pretty sure that it was antiquated just as most last names were these days.

Lucius had never done anything to harm her, and had always helped her with his utmost. She wasn’t worried at all by a meaningless surname and she was actually looking forward to meeting the family.

“I will,” she replied to Severus. “Mr. Malfoy helps me get your presents. I would _never_ rude to him.” Her voice was fervent.

Severus nodded. “Good. Also…do not tell them about the wandless magic, either. In fact, do not tell them anything you would not tell a stranger, regarding myself or anything about you. They are…good people, but only if you are the right person.”

Hermione knew what that meant. As long as she was a Half-Blood—since she obviously wasn’t a Pure-Blood—she would be fine, if not exactly what Lucius wanted her to be. Never had she been more grateful that she wasn’t a Mudblood. What an awful thing that would be.

When they had finished eating, Hermione took the dishes to the sink to be cleaned later by Severus. He went up to his bedroom to pack rather than down to the basement to brew, and Hermione went to go peruse her schoolbooks. It wouldn’t be difficult to have them all memorized before school, which would give her a great head start.

_She was going to be the best._

After Severus had finished packing, he came downstairs with his luggage and put it by the door, waiting to be shrunk for easy travel. Then, since it was their last day together in an unprofessional manner for a while, he played Wizard’s Chess with her for a few hours, and she even managed to beat him once, but she was pretty sure it was because he had been distracted with his thoughts during that round. Then he sat down in His Armchair to doing plan lessons and Hermione settled in with a book—not a schoolbook, but rather one for simple pleasure—and they planned and read in silence respectively.

The next morning, Severus left early and told Hermione that Mr. Malfoy would be by to pick her up promptly at ten. Hermione awaited Lucius’s arrival eagerly, her own things packed with only a little of Severus’s help, wand clutched tightly in her fist and heart beating rapidly.

There was a _crack!_ and Lucius Malfoy appeared before her in all his Pure-blood glory.


	10. Malfoy Manor I: At Least I’m Not a Mudblood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which against all odds and reason, Hermione and Draco somehow get along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet! Yay!
> 
> So, I've been seeing that some people are worried about Dark Lady Hermione not liking Muggleborns. I understand that very much. However, to date, Hermione is not aware that she herself is a Muggleborn, so give her some wiggle room. She will eventually find out, and from there, her views will (probably?) change. This is a darkfic. Hermione was never going to be innocent and nice. Just consider the Muggleborn issue unresolved - but I promise it will be eventually. :)

The Malfoy Manor loomed about Hermione and made her jaw drop so far that she thought it might touch the ground. Spinner’s End wasn’t exactly terrible since Severus had fixed it up when she had initially been adopted, but it was nothing like the grandeur of the Manor.

Tall, steep gables; great stone walls; a huge garden with albino peacocks and all kinds of undoubtedly rare flower that shouldn’t have been blooming at this time of year, especially not in Wiltshire; and a densely forested area surrounding the grounds of the estate. Hermione could not stop staring for the life of her.

Lucius chuckled. “Quite a common reaction,” he said, clearly pleased by it. “Come along now.”

Hermione followed behind him as he walked up the drive past the fountain with sculptures that had to be at least a hundred years old, if not more, and could not stop looking around the estate in awe. Her trunk had been brought back to its normal size and she rolled it along easily, not taking a moment to care how heavy it was due to the beauty of her surroundings.

They arrived at the front door and Lucius snapped out, “Dobby!” and a strange creature that she knew to be a House Elf appeared, already cowering.

“Yes, Master, what does Master want?” he asked, oddly terrified.

“Bring Miss Snape’s belongings to her quarters, then fetch Draco and Narcissa and bring out brunch for the family,” Lucius ordered in a commanding drawl. Dobby took Hermione’s trunk and then disappeared with a _crack!_ Hermione could not stop staring even after he had left. It was, after all, the first time she had met a House Elf in person.

“Come. We’ll have brunch on the patio; it’s very nice this time of year when it’s not raining.”

Hermione nodded, too gobsmacked to speak, and followed him through the manor.

There were many paintings come alive who watched them pass with curious looks on their faces and plenty of ornate furniture and overall splendor. Hermione could not tear her eyes away until they reached the patio, where her attention was again averted to even more surroundings.

The patio itself had whitish-grey marble tile for flooring and was surrounded by tall flowering plants. Just past the roofed area was a large pond with lotus pads and lilies, all of which should not have thrived as they were in Wiltshire. Hermione assumed magic, which was unsurprising but still very impressive. She realized that she had a very long way to go if she was ever going to match the kind of magic that had been built up over the centuries at Malfoy Manor. Still, it was something to aspire to, and she wasn’t going to fail.

Lucius pulled out her seat for her and then seated himself. A few minutes later, a tall, beautiful blonde woman came out the same door they had, her icy blue eyes glancing at her husband and then at Hermione, to whom she smiled graciously and held out her hand.

“Narcissa Malfoy,” she introduced herself.

“Hermione Snape,” Hermione replied, and they shook hands.

“You don’t look much like Severus at all,” Narcissa mused aloud as Lucius stood to pull out her seat before they both sat down in unison. They were a beautiful, beautiful couple and if Hermione had ever had an interest in fairy tales or romantic notions of princes and princesses, she would have seen them alive in Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. “You must take after your mother,” she went on, a small smile on her face.

Hermione had been warned about this by Severus early on in their arrangement. He had told her that only a few people knew she was adopted, including the Headmaster at Hogwarts and several other people whose names did not seem important. However, she had been informed that to the general populace, she was his biological daughter and her mother had died in childbirth. Hermione had never understood why it had to be this way, but she could easily tell even at the young age of six that it wasn’t a matter to be questioned.

It didn’t make any sense though—why would anybody care that she was adopted? She had come from a magical family—obviously, or she wouldn’t have been adopted by a wizard completely unrelated to her; she would have been taken in by her Muggle relatives (and wasn’t that a horrifying thought?). But for some reason Severus had always insisted on it, sternly and without compromise, and eventually her childish curiosity gave way to common sense and she just accepted that that was the way it was. Especially given her father’s warning about keeping her cards close to her chest, she knew that the last people she wanted to share this information with was the Malfoys, no matter how much she already liked them.

Still, she didn’t particularly want to outright lie to the Malfoys, even though it would be inconsequential since she was only affirming what they already thought they knew. She couldn’t avoid the lie, but being brief and vague would at least keep her conscience a little clearer than weaving a great and dramatic tale.

“Father says that, too,” she replied calmly, but with a hint of forlornness. “But he doesn’t like to talk about her much…” She made her voice trail off wistfully and avert her eyes to the forest, giving herself a distant look of longing to make the subject appear off-limits. Even if they weren’t Slytherin to the core and could tell she didn’t want to talk about it, just her mannerisms would indicate to everybody except the most socially stunted that she didn’t want to talk about it.

She missed Lucius and Narcissa’s shared glance, and the slight smirk that twitched on Lucius’s lips in response to his wife’s subtly pleased smile.

“Of course, dear,” Narcissa said contritely. “I apologize if I’ve upset you.”

Hermione slowly brought her gaze back to them, and then smiled softly. “No, it’s alright. When people see me and Father together, they often ask the same questions.” They didn’t, really, but also she and Severus were very rarely seen in public together, as they were both notorious homebodies.

“So, Hermione, I hear that-”

“ _Who’s she?_ ” a voice that clearly expressed dissatisfaction and irritation demanded from right behind her. Hermione whirled around in her seat, eyes wide at the sudden intrusion.

“Draco, dear, this is Hermione Snape. She’ll be staying with us until Hogwarts,” Narcissa replied to the boy pouting in Hermione’s direction. The boy, Draco, huffed and was obviously about to protest, but Lucius cut in.

“Draco, manners,” he reprimanded sternly.

Draco looked hesitant for a moment, then capitulated to his father’s order, although he took a moment to evaluate his new house guest. Hermione took the same moment to do some appraising of her own. She noticed pale, white-blond hair slicked back with a slight overuse of expensive gel that smelled faintly of Wiggentree bark. He had slate grey eyes, pale skin like his parents, and a certain pointiness to his features that could clearly be attributed to Lucius. Draco wore nondescript but still clearly expensive black pants as well as a shirt that was advertising some Quidditch team or another. Hermione had never paid attention to those and wasn’t about to start.

She wasn’t sure what Draco saw in her, but his icy expression thawed and he held out his hand. “Draco Malfoy,” he said, his tone polite and gentlemanly. However, Hermione had immediately seen the propensity for being a spoiled brat and made sure to keep that in mind no matter how well Draco might treat her.

“Hermione Snape,” Hermione said, just a little curtly. She wasn’t going to allow people to walk over her, even Pure-bloods, because Half-blood or not, she was pretty sure that exactly none of the people seated at this table could do all the spells in the Grade 1 and 2 Spellbooks as well as the useful portions of 3 wandlessly and most of the time nonverbally as well. She would always be polite to Lucius due to their rapport from early on, and Narcissa by extension because she was his wife and seemed worthy enough of respect, but Draco? She would be nice to him as long as he was nice to her and not a second longer.

Draco’s voice matched her previous curtness. “You’re my godfather’s daughter, then?”

Hermione raised her eyebrow, but before she could respond, Narcissa cleared her throat delicately and said, “Enough, Draco, it’s time for brunch.”

Their conversation more or less put on hold, Draco took his seat between Hermione and Lucius and Dobby and another House Elf whose name Hermione couldn’t remember brought out a load of delicious foods: chocolate-filled croissants, cream cheese and strawberry Danishes, platters of scrambled eggs and rashers of bacon, toast accompanied by freshly-churned butter and jams of exotic fruits, sandwiches of roast beef and ham and turkey meat, a large teapot full of perfectly-steeped Earl Grey, and much more. Hermione wasn’t sure why there was a need for so much food when there were only four people in attendance, but she wasn’t going to complain either.

Throughout the meal, Lucius and Narcissa posed questions to Draco but mostly Hermione, all of a menial nature and said in friendly tones that would elicit conversation, but something in Hermione told her to stay wary and on her toes despite the apparent camaraderie. She wasn’t suspicious of them, nor did she particularly mistrust them, but she felt a nagging insistence that if she wasn’t careful they would bowl right over her with gentle innuendo and kind, but not innocent, praise. She took to the challenge like a duck to water, and halfway through the meal she felt comfortable enough to join in on the game, asking questions of her own.

When the meal was coming to a close, everyone having eaten their fill, Narcissa asked Hermione in what seemed an innocuous tone, “Do you have a House in particular that you would like to be Sorted into?”

Hermione knew immediately that her answer would influence how the Malfoys looked upon her for their rest of their association, and chose her answer carefully but promptly. “I feel like I would do well in either Slytherin or Ravenclaw,” Hermione answered honestly. As subtle as it was, Hermione knew that putting Slytherin first in her answer would supply an unconscious assumption that she preferred the former over the latter. She wrinkled her nose just dramatically enough for effect when she went on, “But as long as I’m not in Gryffindor I’ll be happy.”

The entire Malfoy family was definitively pleased by that assessment, and it was for that very reason that she had added in the Gryffindor comment. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but Hermione felt that if on the off chance she was placed in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, she would do just fine. In fact, though she would never voice it in this company, she would prefer Gryffindor over Hufflepuff.

But she was quite confident that Hufflepuff was not in the question for her Sorting. She had too much ambition that would only be hindered by the kind of loyalty Hufflepuff House was based on. No, if worse came to worst, she’d be in Gryffindor. She didn’t deny that she could be reckless sometimes—her attempt to runaway featuring a particularly bloodthirsty werewolf had made that very clear to her.

“Draco?” she asked after a quick clearing of her thoughts. “What about you? I could guess, but that’d take all the fun out of it.”

“Slytherin, of course,” he said proudly. “All Malfoys go to Slytherin.”

Lucius smiled at his son, a secret smile that was only between the two men of the Malfoy family, Hermione could tell. Then Narcissa spoke.

“Draco, why don’t you show Hermione to her room? Your father and I have business to attend to.”

The dismissal was clear and Draco nodded and motioned for Hermione to come along. However, before she began to follow she said, “Thank you for the food. It was delicious.”

Lucius nodded graciously and Narcissa smiled and thanked her for the compliment. Then, as quickly as she could without seeming impolite, she followed after Draco.

Draco was waiting for her at the bottom of a staircase in the next room over. He motioned for her to follow and she did.

“You’re definitely going to be in Slytherin,” he said confidently as they began to climb the staircase. “You’re Snape’s daughter, after all, and he was in Slytherin. Houses are in blood, you know.”

Hermione greatly doubted that, and even if it was true, she wasn’t Severus’s biological daughter. They shared exactly zero DNA beyond being human beings. But she didn’t voice this, only nodding in response. “I might,” she confided. “But I’m very dedicated to my studies, so Ravenclaw is a real possibility.”

Draco shrugged as they reached the landing and then he led her down an adjacent hallway. “Ravenclaw isn’t that bad, but it’s not as good as Slytherin,” he opined. He paused in front of a closed door. “This one’s yours.” He pointed down the hallway a little bit. “And that one’s mine. Do you want to play Wizard’s chess?”

“Sure,” Hermione said, genuinely cheerful. She had been a little worried that she might be bored, but Draco was proving to be good if not particularly nuanced company, so her fears were allayed.

They sat down for a match, and Draco turned out, not unexpectedly, to be a sore loser. But he agreed to play again, and this time Hermione played a little sloppily to give him a chance to win. It was very close that time, but she still won, and then the next game she allowed Draco to win because she didn’t want to make an enemy out of him and with his reaction to losing, she had a feeling that was a real possibility. At least she was mature enough to lose, even if she wasn’t throwing the game, without getting sulky and angry over it.

She wasn’t surprised that Draco wasn’t as good as chess as she was. After all, her father had never once gone easy on her and so it was either learn from her losses or lose without question every single time.

Still, regardless of beating Draco, she still lost every 9 out of 10 games with Severus. She couldn’t say she didn’t feel for her new potential ally—she wouldn’t dare call them friends any time soon—but after the Incident, she had been desperate to bond with her father, and so she had learned to lose with grace just so that he would keep playing with her. Severus wasn’t one to put up with pouting and passive-aggressiveness for very long, and in retrospect she was glad for that.

However, eventually they both grew tired of the game and Draco said, “Do you play Quidditch?”

“No,” Hermione replied, a little ashamed despite her lack of interest in the sport. “I’ve never even flown before. Father doesn’t like brooms very much.”

Draco was aghast. “ _You’ve never ridden a broom before?”_ He was positively scandalized.

He grabbed her hand and dragged her downstairs and to the yard where a shed full of brooms was waiting. Hermione followed as quickly as she could, not out of eagerness but more so because she didn’t want her arm to be torn off. Still, his excitement was contagious and by the time they had reached the shed she was panting and smiling widely.

“They recently came out with the Nimbus 2000, but Father won’t let me have one yet,” Draco said with a pout. “But I have a few Cleansweeps, you could start out on the Seven.” He puffed up his chest proudly. “I’m going to fly on the Nimbus 1700.”

Hermione nodded in acceptance, and dared to ask about the differences. As it turned out, there were many, and most of the comparisons were favoring the Nimbus 1700. Hermione was not particularly surprised.

“Can you teach me how to do this?” she asked, holding the broom awkwardly. She had never so much as studied flight theory, and she wasn’t about to look like a fool on a broom despite her inexperience.

Draco was a relatively patient teacher, and soon Hermione was hovering several feet off the ground. She immediately began to feel a little queasy, but she decided that she wasn’t going to humiliate herself in front of Draco, so she forced herself up until she was twenty feet or so up in the air.

It wasn’t _terrible,_ per se, but it was definitely not a form of travel she would prefer, and she definitely would never be a Quidditch player. Still, she flew around slowly while Draco zoomed around her and did corkscrews above and below her. She even found it within herself to laugh at some of his particularly silly or daring antics.

Then the clouds that had gathered started to let down the rain and they were forced to go inside. They still weren’t at a point where a conversation wouldn’t be awkward, so Draco introduced her to Exploding Snap. Hermione found herself really enjoying spending time with him, despite the flaws she was already picking up on, and she realized that like herself, Draco probably didn’t have many children to hang out with all that often.

So they played various games until dinner time, and after dinner continued to have fun until Narcissa bid them to go to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the scent of Draco’s hair gel: “The Wiggentree is a magical rowan that will protect any touching its trunk from the attack of Dark creatures,” as stated in the Harry Potter wiki.
> 
> Also, this is pre-Hogwarts Draco. If you think that a kid spoiled by his parents and made to believe that he’s literally better than pretty much everyone else on the planet is going to be particularly mature for his age or not a sore loser, I’m just going to tell you that we’ll have to agree to disagree. However, be assured that Hermione’s influence on Draco will be positive (in most ways, not all) and he’ll become a better human being (relatively, this is a dark fic featuring Dark Lady Hermione, soo…) as they continue to grow as friends (and more, but who know when THAT will happen? Not this girl.)


	11. Malfoy Manor II: A Disappointing Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione finds out that Draco is forced to be narrow-minded because of his blood status and promptly decides that that’s not okay. Her plans for her regime as a Dark Lady change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...sorry for the long wait. I had been stalled by the new book that I published!

There were only five more days until she and Draco and the rest of the new Hogwarts students were due to be at King’s Crossing, and surprisingly, Hermione wasn’t looking forward to it quite as much as she had expected she would.

Three days in the Malfoys’ company, especially Draco’s, had made Hermione realize what it meant to have a friend. Sure, Draco wasn’t as inherently intelligent as she was, but academic intelligence did not translate into social grace, which Draco had in spades—unless the person in question was a Mudblood. Hermione didn’t really find that too upsetting though; she was a Half-Blood, Draco was Pure-Blood, and she expected that any Mudbloods—oh, she knew she was supposed to call them Muggle-borns, but in the company of people like the Malfoys, it would be construed as being sympathetic, and that wasn’t good for relations with them—would be even less intelligent than any Pure-Blood or Half-Blood, and therefore they were all but insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

Anyways, Draco had social skills down to an art, and Hermione found herself feeling particularly socially stunted around him. Draco, while perhaps not the most overall intelligent person out there (Hermione would soon find out that Draco was, in fact, exceedingly intelligent for his age—she was just an outlier and so above everyone else that even the boy who would always be in second place behind her in grades was still divided from her by a large margin), well, Draco knew how to _play_ people. Hermione hadn’t realized it until before she went to bed after the first day that she had unknowingly stepped into a game of wits, and soon after had come to the conclusion that if she was going to survive anywhere—even Gryffindor, and especially Hufflepuff—she would have to take a page out of Draco Malfoy’s book and, well, not _copy,_ but learn from him.

She wasn’t a social butterfly and she wasn’t expecting a legion of friends, but now that she had Draco, she found that she would at least like to have a small social group that she could rely on. For that reason, she was starting to hope she ended up in Slytherin, because if Draco chose to stay friends with her beyond this short vacation at the Manor, then she would be able to rely on his skills and somehow fit herself into whatever group of people flocked to him. She knew there would be, simply due to the fact that he _was_ attractive, but mostly, well, he was _filthy rich._

Even if it meant having her father be her Head of House.

They were sitting in front of the pond by the patio where she’d had her first-ever brunch, and Draco was poking the water with a stick listlessly. Hermione was on her front, wiggling her fingers beneath the surface to see if she could convince any of the fish to come nibble on her fingertips.

“Would you rather a Crucio for ten minutes or being under Imperius for a week?” Hermione asked. They had been asking each other odd questions on and off since their arrival at the pond. Although neither knew it, the game was similar to the Muggle game “20 Questions.”

“Crucio for ten,” Draco said simply. “Doesn’t last as long.”

“Does a lot more damage though,” she argued, though she felt the same way. “Could mess you up for life, if it doesn’t drive you insane during.” Draco nodded in acknowledgement.

“Muggle parents or being a werewolf?” Draco asked after a minute.

Hermione shuddered. “Muggle parents for sure.” Then, very curious as to how he’d answer for himself, she said, “You?”

“Death.”

“That’s not one of the options.”

“Werewolf then,” he said.

“But you’d be all alone,” Hermione pointed out. But she wasn’t about to say that having Muggle parents would be better, because to a Malfoy, it definitely wouldn’t be. Hermione herself wasn’t too keen on the idea either, but her aversion to werewolves was much greater than his.

Draco playfully growled at her and then snapped his teeth in her direction. “Then I’d just turn you.” It was said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Hermione simultaneously blushed and chilled. On the one hand, Draco was probably her best (only) friend. On the other hand, she’d rather die than be a werewolf.

The only solution was to change the topic. Violently. “Marry a beautiful, smart, perfect Mudblood,” Draco’s eyes widened in horror at the route the question was taking, but it was payback for his question even if he didn’t know it, “or a hideous, stupid, completely insane Pureblood?”

It took Draco a moment to ponder this, and that had been Hermione’s intention. The fact that he was not automatically going for the Pureblood was indicative of Draco’s only _nearly_ successful indoctrination. Not that Hermione particularly cared whether he was indoctrinated or not, but she didn’t want a carbon copy of Lucius Malfoy, no matter how much she liked him. More so, though, she wanted to see Draco do some legitimately critical thinking.

He countered with a question. “Is divorce an option?”

“No. Once you marry them, it’s forever.” She paused, then added, “You’re not allowed to have mistresses, either, and she’ll live longer than you do, so no matter what you do, you’ll be married to her for the rest of your life. You also can’t murder her or get out of the marriage in any way.”

Draco looked about to speak, and Hermione had to add one stipulation.

“You also _have_ to sleep with her at least once a week for the rest of your life.”

His eyes narrowed, and she could tell he knew she was backing him into a corner. Then again, it wasn’t like she had been subtle about it.

He looked a little green in the face, but finally said, “The Pureblood.”

Hermione scowled. She had honestly not expected him to be so narrow-minded. It was immensely disappointing, honestly.

“You?” he asked, sounding smug. He seemed to think this would be a similar conundrum for her.

“Obviously the Mudblood,” she said simply, and at the surprised look on his face, whether at her decision or the quickness of her response, she didn’t know.

He looked about to object angrily, and Hermione headed him off with her own explanation.

“I’m a Half-Blood,” she told him. “No matter who I marry, my children will be Half-Bloods. And even if I have to choose between the two, I’m not going to make myself miserable for the rest of my life.” She gave him a hard, calculating look. “You could possibly overcome the fact that your wife is a Mudblood, or just ignore it. You’ll have the perfect woman and even if her blood isn’t what you wanted it to be, her personality, looks, and overall aspects will let you come to love her over time. The shame of marrying one would fade. But if I married the Pureblood, even though his blood status would be preferable to the Mudblood’s, I’d literally be miserable for the rest of my life. Honestly, I’d rather be happy despite the disgrace. And people have short memories. Eventually the people who mattered would forget or not care—because he would be likable—and those who weren’t worth it would leave.

“Most of all, though, I wouldn’t want friends who would punish me for choosing to be happy.”

Draco stared at her for a long moment before turning away. He was silent and she knew he was contemplating her answer.

It was quiet for a while, and Hermione was pleasantly surprised when finally one of the bigger fish took a tentative nibble of her fingers, which were now a little chilly from the water.

“You don’t understand.”

Hermione startled, not having expected Draco to speak again, even though his voice was quiet and barely above a whisper. She had even considered that he might get mad enough to storm off. But, at least for now, that hadn’t happened.

He was staring off into the forest, eyes glazed with thought. “I’d lose everything,” he said softly, as though not wanting to be overhead. “My parents would disown me. Any Slytherin friends I make would automatically shun me. I’d become a-a blood traitor. I’d be surrounded by Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and honestly, it just wouldn’t be worth it. Even if she was perfect, I’d lose everything except her. And I don’t think that even the most perfect wife and family would be worth that.”

Now Hermione was the one forced into thought. She’d never hated Muggle-borns like Draco had, even if she despised their parents for being Muggles. And some might say the apple never fell far from the tree, but Hermione was then made to give it more thought than she originally would have.

Surely the fact that the Muggle-born would be influenced by magic and wizarding culture could break them free of their Muggle ties? What if, once they were found to be magical, they could be taken in by magical families and break them away from the roots that would threaten to sour them as people?

She didn’t think that just because they had Muggle parents should automatically be a death sentence, because they _were,_ inherently, magical. They just happened to have an unlucky background. But that could be mitigated if they were cut off from that, right? Maybe before they even knew who their parents were. She knew there was a registry of wizards and witches, even Muggle-borns, that started from birth. Couldn’t that be used to take the children away at birth? And then with a simple memory charm, they and anyone else who knew about the birth taking place could be convinced that the child had been stillborn.

It would be a little tricky, but absolutely not impossible.

She considered these ideals. She pulled her hand out of the pond and stretched out on the grass. She wanted to voice her thoughts to Draco, but she didn’t think she trusted him enough to share them with him yet. But she figured that if things continued to develop the way they were, it wouldn’t be impossible to convert him to her cause. And then he could be the Pureblood face of her movement, drawing in other Purebloods and taking them away from Voldemort.

And, it occurred to her now, with her new philosophy regarding Muggle-borns, it might be easier to get Half-Bloods on her side, and perhaps even Muggle-borns themselves once they could see the truth. It would be hard, but again, not impossible.

They sat like that for a while, until one of the House-Elves called them in for dinner. As they stood up, they shared a look, and there was implicit understanding that this discussion would be shared with no one else. Then, as though neither of them had had a life-changing revelation, they walked back up to the Manor.


	12. Malfoy Manor III: Interesting Trinkets, Or: Look but Don’t Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione is inadvertently introduced to the many Dark artifacts in the Manor, Draco freaks right the fuck out, Lucius gives a scolding, and Narcissa is immensely and passive-aggressively disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Binge upload tonight! On AO3, Modus Operandi, Bloody Kisses, and this story will be updated!
> 
> Enjoy!

“We really shouldn’t go down there,” Draco said nervously. “We don’t even know where it goes.”

Hermione hesitated her descent down the stairs to what appeared to be a basement. Draco had been taking her on a tour of the manor, which had been enlightening, fun, and a lovely sight, but then they had apparently taken a wrong turn somewhere, and had ended up in a part of the enormous manor that even Draco hadn’t discovered yet. They had at first attempted to find their way back to the corridor they had come from, then they had just searched for a hallway that was familiar to Draco, and then, having failed at both, they had decided to just enjoy exploring a part that neither of them had ever seen, or indeed, had even known existed.

“Well, we won’t ever know if we don’t go down,” Hermione argued. She wanted to go down; she felt a sort of presence down there, unknown and almost frightening, but also alluring in the strangest way. “And since we don’t know how we got here, then we may never find it again.” Trying to appeal to his adventurous side, she went on, “Don’t you want to know everything about your home?”

Draco apparently did not have an adventurous side. He was pale and sweating lightly, and his hands trembled. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said in a high-pitched voice she had never heard before. “It-it feels…like something bad is down there.”

Hermione was surprised he had noticed it too, but didn’t comment on it. “We’ll just take a quick look around.” Compromising seemed like the best tactic right now. “And if there’s anything bad, we’ll just leave.”

Draco was silent and still staunchly unmoving.

Her brow furrowed. “You’re not…scared, are you?”

At this, Draco stiffened and he looked offended. “Of course not,” he said, but the bluff was clear even though Hermione wasn’t especially talented at reading people.

She still took advantage of it. “Then let’s go.”

Draco figured out a microsecond too late that he’d been played—although it had been completely unintended—and threw his shoulders back and puffed up his chest. “Fine.”

Hermione nodded in agreement, but they both didn’t move for a long moment. She realized that he wouldn’t be going anywhere unless he was prompted, and she was really the one who wanted to go down there anyway, so she continued her way down the stairs as confidently as possible. Now that Draco had agreed, albeit unwillingly, she herself was now a bit tentative about their decision. Still, she steeled herself and descended into the poorly lit room.

They encountered the door, which was locked, but since only Hermione had tried it and it was dark, she waved her hand quickly and whispered, “Alohamora.” With a little click it was unlocked, and she opened it as if she had never encountered a problem in the first place.

Except she had the slight problem that there was almost no light in the basement, and although she longed to use _lumos_ to light their way, she remembered her father’s warning and knew better than to reveal her secret. She fingered the wand in her pocket. Could she risk it…?

“Draco,” she said quietly, because there was something about this place that encouraged low volumes. “I’m going to do something. You can’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Sure,” he replied, voice shaking audibly.

It took a few tries—the feeling of using a wand was so different than wandless magic, and she wasn’t accustomed to it yet—but soon she was able to create a small, flickering light on the tip of her wand.

When she turned to face Draco with her wand lit and she could see his face, she noticed that his jaw had dropped. “You can cast spells already?” he asked, voice as quiet as hers had been.

She fumbled for a plausible explanation. “My father had an old Grade 1 Spellbook lying around and I just…tried it out. I didn’t actually expect it to work, though.” Now that last part was actually _not_ a lie.

Thankfully, Draco took it at face value and they progressed into the room. Hermione attempted to funnel more magic into the lumos to make it larger—it was a control that she had learned early on with her wandless magic—but she didn’t have the feel of using a wand yet right so the lumos sputtered and flickered. Worried that it would go out and she wouldn’t be able to do it again, she stopped and just took a few halting steps deeper into the room.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting and she started to pick up visuals. There were a few dusty, abandoned paintings here and there with unmoving portraits—and strangely, no magic came from them although they were obviously not Muggle. Hermione didn’t understand it, so she decided to ask Draco.

When his eyes found them, he stared for a minute and then gasped.

“What?” Hermione whispered urgently. “ _What?_ ”

“They’re-they’re dead people,” he said, eyes wide with terror.

She was confused. “So? Dead people live on all the time in pictures.”

“ _No,_ ” Draco said emphatically. “The portraits _died._ ”

She was chilled to the bone at that. How would a portrait die? They were immortal unless destroyed, and these were in no way damaged. They should have been fine, so why weren’t they?

Then her thoughts clicked. “They were…murdered?”

Draco gulped audibly and then grabbed her by the arm. “Let’s go somewhere else,” he said hurriedly.

Hermione, though terrified, was not ready to leave just yet. “Come on, just a little more.”

She started to go to what was presumably the left, and since she was the only source of light, he was forced to follow her.

Grotesque statues, strange artefacts from days long passed, an urn that emitted the smell of a rotting corpse—not that either of them would know—a warped mirror that twisted their features into terrifying visuals that made both of them yelp and hurry on, and then suddenly—a dusty, damaged bookshelf.

Unable to restrain herself from the allure of books, Hermione ran her hands along the nearest row of spine. She shrieked when one snapped at her, nearly drawing blood.

Draco grabbed her hand and yanked it down. “Are you an idiot?” he hissed. “That could be blood magic!”

Hermione paled at that. Blood magic, while she planned to learn it when she was skilled enough, was not something she wanted to have _done_ to her. If she was going to mess with it, she would do it on her own terms and not a second before.

They turned to leave from the bookshelf. “I think I’m ready to go,” Hermione said almost inaudibly. The silence was stifling.

Draco nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

But just as they were passing the bookshelf, Hermione noticed a small black book that looked exactly like a diary. Something about it called to her, and without giving a single thought to it, she grabbed the book and stuffed it into the pocket of her robes.

She just wanted to examine it later, she told herself, and then wondered at the strange recklessness of her action. Soon, though, it was pushed away when there was a sudden flare of light to their right.

Both screamed at the sight of a moving, flaming human body that was definitely dead—and had been for a long time.

“ _Run!”_ Draco bellowed, no longer concerned about being quiet. They grabbed each other’s hands and dashed away, but soon realized they were lost with a flaming zombie following them.

“This way!” Hermione shouted, and they darted down what seemed to be a row of urns.

Ghastly howls reverberated as they ran, and they were only outmatched by the terrified screaming of the two children. Then, in a terrible bout of misfortune, they took a left turn and ran straight into the mirror that had shown them those horrifying visages.

The urns were howling, the zombie was moaning and flaring, the mirror was now shrieking, and Draco and Hermione were trapped on all sides.

“ _Father!”_ Draco sobbed, knees giving out. Hermione was not far behind him. “We’re going to die, we’re going to die!”

Hermione was of the same thought process as she watched the zombie near them and reach out its burning hand. Then, with an urgent, powerful thought, she flapped both hands at the zombie, foolishly dropping her wand, and shouted, _“Aguamenti!”_

It seemed as though a tidal wave of water rose from nowhere and washed the zombie away. The flames were extinguished and there was the dull thud of something falling. It seemed that the zombie had been taken care of, but now they had no light and Hermione had lost her wand. The urns were quieter now, and the mirror had no effect without illumination, but they were hopelessly lost and surrounded by dark magic.

“What are we going to do? What are we going to _do?_ ” Draco moaned.

Tears were springing up in Hermione’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she said softly, and a tear spilled down her cheek. She paused. “Draco…I’m so sorry. I’m a right idiot.”

Draco gave a strained, humorless chuckle. “I was an idiot to follow you. I should have just dragged you out. But we can’t be friends after this,” he said.

Hermione felt a lump grow in her throat and she struggled not to start crying. She had just lost her first friend, because of her stupid _Gryffindor_ traits. Would she never learn?

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m so sorry.” And then a sob escaped her.

“Wait,” Draco said, sounding panicked, but nowhere near what he had before when their lives had been in acute danger—now they were still in danger, but it was looking like more of a starvation kind of danger. “Don’t cry, Hermione, I was just joking.”

She sniffled. “I don’t deserve to be your friend anyway,” she replied, knowing that it was true. “I’ve gotten us killed.”

Draco shuddered next to her. “Yeah, you have,” he said without remorse. Hermione flinched and pulled away.

He was right to be mad, she knew. It still hurt.

“Well, if we get out of here, you’ll definitely be sorted into Gryffindor,” Draco joked weakly.

Hermione wiped a few tears away and shivered. “Merlin, I hope not. I’m never doing anything like this ever again.”

“Good. Then maybe we can still be friends.”

She laughed weakly, on some level knowing it could be a joke.

“I hope that-”

“ _DRACO!_ ”

Both children startled, and then, realizing that it was Lucius’s voice, both scrambled to their feet and screamed, “Father!” and “Mr. Malfoy!” at the same time.

A light on the tip of his wand that would have made Dumbledore proud approached, and then Lucius appeared in the flesh. “What in _hell_ were you doing down here?” Lucius demanded, fury hiding any concern there might have been.

“We were just-” Hermione began to say.

“We were lost and-” Draco cried, talking over her.

“Hush,” Lucius said coldly. “None of your excuses. Follow me, and try to keep up.”

Hermione hesitated. “Mr. Malfoy, my wand-”

Lucius turned around and the light was enough that Hermione could see where her wand had rolled away a few feet and she snatched it up.

“Come,” Lucius said, and Draco and Hermione followed after him, terrified of the newest danger.

* * *

The scolding went on for what seemed like hours, and both spent most of the time apologizing and crying. They were in Lucius’s study where he went on and on about recklessness, stupidity, and so on, but to Hermione’s surprise, no matter how harsh Lucius’s words were, Draco never once blamed the incident on her despite that it was her fault to begin with.

Narcissa stood to the side with a deeply disappointed look on her face, and somehow, that expression alone made Hermione feel worse than any of Lucius’s chastising. She felt terrible to have let the stately woman down, and the thought of them not liking her anymore made her want to curl up in a ball and cry forever. She had become fond of the Malfoys and was terrified that they would kick her out, or worse, continue to let her stay but never speak to her again after this.

At the end, both Draco and Hermione were sent to their rooms. They ate dinner separately, and all Hermione could do was cry until she was exhausted and then fall asleep. She forgot about the little diary she had stolen until the next day when she had an imprint of it on her chest where it had been stored.

It was stowed away in her luggage and promptly ignored for the rest of her stay in Malfoy Manor.


End file.
